


The girl in the woods

by ballofstring



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BIG REGRET, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dark Magic, F/M, Flashbacks, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, extra dose of feels, geralt goes through some stuff, minor hate sex warning, renfri deserves better, stregobor is the worst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24300298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballofstring/pseuds/ballofstring
Summary: Geralt really needs everyone to stop asking him about his ghosts. Or rather, one ghost in particular.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Renfri | Shrike, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 21
Kudos: 63





	1. Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: my only exposure to the Witcher is via the Netflix series, so apologies for the limited world-building/lore. I also took some big liberties with the timeline and the plot - there's no Ciri for example, so take this as just some loosely canon-based feels dump because I love Renfri and she deserved better.

“Seriously Geralt, even you must be freezing in this weather, it’s practically a blizzard outside!” Jaskier asks through the chattering of his teeth. “Come by the fire before you turn into ice.”

Geralt doesn’t respond, but he does settle down close to the small campfire; close enough the errant cinders almost catch against his hair. He doesn’t feel the warmth, but he doesn't feel the cold either.

“Do you think we can travel tomorrow?” the bard questions, rubbing at his arms aggressively. “I really want to get to Termeria soon.”

“Yes.” Then because he’s travelled with Jaskier for long enough to know there will be follow up questions. “We should be there by nightfall if we make good speed.” 

He levels a pointed look at the other man. Jaskier had a tendency to get sidetracked. And rise late. It was not a helpful combination.

Jaskier either misses his look or chose to ignore it. “Ah fantastic! Can’t wait to stay in an inn with some good ale and a bed, gods, a _bed.”_

Geralt almost rolls his eyes at the dramatics. It's only been three days since they left the last town where there were perfectly good ale and beds. 

"I don’t even know why you wanted to come so badly this time. There’s not much in Termeria.”

“Oh but that’s where you’re wrong, my dear Witcher,” Jaskiers cut in, a sparkle in his eye. “Long before I met you, I heard the great tale of Geralt of Rivia and the deadly Striga! How you fought to the death and risked life and limb to save the innocent, cursed princess.”

Geralt sighs. Of course Jaskier knew about this. The man had an alarming knowledge of Geralt's past and an insatiable desire to keep digging. It would be flattering if it wasn't so inconvenient sometimes. Still, they've been on the road together long enough that Geralt knows it comes from a good place. There's no malice in Jaskier's interest, and even if he finds some of the stories the bard spins outrageous, he has to admit it's done wonders for his reputation. Nowadays, Geralt's more likely to be welcomed with a drink and an offer for a job than frosty glares and suspicious discomfort. 

As if reading his mind, Jaskier grins. “Do tell me more Geralt, I’m hoping to conjure up a piece that would rival _Toss A Coin_!”

“Definitely not then,” Geralt groans.

“Ah but so many choices - to focus on your ferocious near-death battle or the beauty of you putting your own life on the line to save a princess, so innocent despite the tragedy thrust on her-”

Geralt goes still, but Jaskier is too caught up in his imaginations and keeps pondering aloud. “Ah it’d be so sweet, the White Wolf, seeing past the monster everyone speaks off to her real self...oh! Perhaps I shall call you the saviour of princesses-”

“Enough,” he growls harshly and he regrets it when Jaskier’s eyes widen, shocked and a little hurt.

They prepare to sleep in silence. “Don’t call me that- I didn’t save - I don’t deserve-,” he croaks out. “I’m just not.”

“Okay,” Jaskier says softly, like he understands, when he couldn’t possibly know what Geralt is thinking. “Okay, I won’t. Promise.”

They exchange no more words after that, but Geralt lies awake long after the other man’s soft snores fill the space between them because he fears what will come in his sleep.

* * *

He’s in the woods and a hand is gentle against his thigh; is pushing back his hair. He sees eyes of brown, feels teeth against his neck and there's heat: against him, around him, low in his stomach and kissed into his mouth. But then the heat burns iron hot and he looks down to see red and when he looks around, he’s in a town square, the air biting cold and the blood branding his skin. Bright eyes stare at him as she falls, as he holds her, the palm of his hand pressed against her neck in vain. She opens her mouth to speak, but he can’t hear what she says. 

He wakes up and shivers, the dream clawing at him. He feels the cold in his veins.

* * *

They spend about an hour on the road before Jaskier asks. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he replies evenly, hoping the other gets the hint and leaves him to wallow in his thoughts alone.

Jaskier being Jaskier does not let him. “Is it to do with whoever that brooch on your sword belongs to?”

Geralt tenses and curses the bard’s impeccable instincts. “Maybe it’s mine.”

Jaskier actually laughs. “Oh please, rare gems and such fine craftsmanship - Geralt, you can barely afford to sleep in an inn most days, and that clearly came from a lord’s castle, if not a palace.”

When Geralt glares at him, Jaskier looks like the cat that got the canary. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

He wishes there was another blizzard so he could focus on that instead of having to have this conversation. Instead, the weather is perfectly pleasant. The sun is out, there's a light breeze. 

“Fine. Yes, it belonged to a princess,” he confesses, begrudgingly. “You happy?”

Jaskier grins. “You must’ve really changed her life, if you know what I mean. That is a _lovely_ token of favour.” 

“It’s not a token,” Geralt bites out and he wonders again how the man gets him to talk about things he had no intention of ever talking about. He's not sure how to explain this. Why he took the brooch in the first place. Sometimes, he's not even sure himself. “It’s...a reminder.”

“Of her?” His face must show some of what he’s thinking, because Jaskier’s smile fades.

“Of what happens when I interfere with humanity,” he admits. “She…deserved better than what happened to her.”

Jaskier frowns, but his voice is soft. “What happened to her?”

Geralt stares hard at his hands for a long moment, before replying. “I did.”

It's hard to pinpoint the expression on Jaskier's face when he finally looks at him. It's a mixture of pity, concern, curiosity and more. 

He looks away. This was a mistake.

"You should talk about it, Geralt. It might be good for you to not keep it all bottled up," Jaskier says after they ride in silence for a while. 

He only grunts.

Jaskier looks exasperated. "You're not going to are you?" 

"No." 

He's rewarded with a loud sigh, but the other doesn't push him. Instead Jaskier starts on a new song he's pulling together about peaches, doves and a paperbark tree.

* * *

He’s not expecting to see Triss when they make it to Termeria, though he really should have. These recent...musings have left him unfocused.

It’s not that he’s unhappy to see her, but he distinctly remembers what had happened last time they’d seen each other. What he had revealed whilst he was floating between life and death; what she had asked him afterwards.

As if it wasn’t bad enough that he already had Jaskier asking him about his ghosts, now here was another person who knew too much.

_“_ _Who’s Renfri?” Triss had asked casually as he shifted painfully from the bed. It’s not an exaggeration to say he felt like death._

_He put down the wrenching feeling down to the pull of his still healing wounds. He avoided the question and asked for his payment._

_“Hers was the only name you uttered; over and over in your sleep.”_

_His heart sank at the revelation. He needed to get out of here._

_“You must love her a lot.”_

_“Witchers don’t love,” he informed her coolly. “We don’t...do that.”_

_She pressed the coin bag into his hands with a sad smile. “But you can feel it anyway. I hope when you find her again, Geralt of Rivia, you let yourself be happy.”_

_Triss had looked so sincere and hopeful in that moment Geralt had simply nodded and walked away instead of telling her that such a thing could never be._

She greets them with a warm smile and she makes no comment other than asking about their visit and inviting them to eat with her.

Geralt doesn't remember much of the place last time he was here, but there's no mystery this time, no cover-ups and no one he has to save, and he allows himself to admire the town and the people and relax before going to complete the job that night. 

Triss and Jaskier get along like a house on fire and she happily offers to tag along to help out if required. It’s relatively straightforward - an Alghoul, unpleasant but better than it could’ve been given the rumours of villagers being devoured in the abandoned crypts. 

Triss looks like she might throw up her lunch and Jaskier complains, but appear largely unaffected. How a bard developed his level of apathy towards monstrous creatures is beyond Geralt. 

Indeed, Jaskier spends of his time trying to flirt with Triss, but she handles his affections with a gentle, but firm rejection. Jaskier takes it all in stride and the two are becoming fast friends by the time they finally settle to eat. They dig into a supper of chicken, bread and berries and exchange tales of Geralt much to his dismay. Triss tells Jaskier all about the Striga - but thankfully not of his recovery - and Jaskier tells her of what happened with Filavandrel and the elves. 

“Oh I have heard the famous tune,” she grins, before tossing a coin at Geralt.

Jaskier laughs so hard he almost knocks over his ale and they spend the rest of the night chatting about their adventures and the plans. He muses about the lovely ladies of Aedirn and perhaps visiting Nenneke. He steals berries from Geralt's plate and he tells Jaskier that there's no way he's going to either of those two places just to save the bard from whatever mischief he'll get up to. 

Triss tells them she's spend several years on the development on a new potion to improve clarity of memories, to heal the mind and not just the body. "You gave me the idea actually, Geralt," she confesses and he's taken aback.

She smiles as if expecting such a reaction. "When you saved the princess, you gave her a life. But she was remembered nothing, knew nothing, and I wanted to help her really _live_."

He gives her a nod of appreciation, but there's a heaviness in his stomach. He couldn't even save someone properly. 

Jaskier cuts in smoothly, bumping his elbows lightly against Geralt's. He asks for stories of the great mages and they're both surprised to know Triss is good friends with Yennefer, an association that displeases Jaskier greatly. “B-but she’s so…Yennefer.” It’s said like a curse.

Triss just laughs him off. “Oh don’t be silly, Yen is just...eccentric. But she's a loyal friend, I couldn't ask for more.”

Jaskier looks unconvinced.

“How is she doing these days?” Geralt can’t help but ask. His history with Yennefer was complicated, but it didn't mean he wasn't interested.

Triss looks at him assessingly, before patting his arm. “She’s off with Tissaia, best leave them be.”

He feels like he’s missing something, but shrugs and Triss orders them another round of drinks.

When Jaskier starts chatting with one of the barmaids, Triss leans in. "I'm sorry to see you alone still, Geralt."

"I'm not alone," he grumbles. "Jaskier travels with me."

She lays a hand on his arm and her eyes are the same as they were decades ago. "You know that's not what I mean." 

He does, and he doesn't know what to say to that, but she mercifully knocks her cup against his and stands. "I'm going to get us more bread!"

He ends up having to rescue Jaskier when he gets a little too friendly with the barmaid and her father turns out to the innkeeper. Triss' laugh rings in the night air and they make a speedy departure. 

They leave a few days later than originally anticipated with a fat purse, full bellies and a new friend to send them off. He can’t say the trip wasn’t worthwhile, even if it feels like a scab has been ripped open within him.

* * *

He dreams about Renf- Blaviken every day for the next week. 

Occasionally it’s a snippet of a moment - standing on the bank of a river, the crunch of fallen leaves beneath his feet or sitting in a dark inn, sharing a beer and a harmless secret against the flickering light of candles. It's words spoken and unspoken; a touch, lost in the haze between memory and longing. Soft and tentative, then hungry and bruising.

Sometimes it plays out in horrifying clarity - the way a sword carves into bone, the wetness of blood against soft skin, the shudder before the last breath leaves the body, a final message forever unknown.

Other times, it’s as if they are somewhere else altogether, somewhere they’ve never been and would never be, but she’s there and she’s alive. He reaches out and she's solid in his hands, and when he pulls her in, she's so close he feels the warmth radiating off her, the strong pulse beneath his fingertips. Her eyes are wide, and bright, and beautiful and he leans in even as he tries to memorise every little detail. He shudders awake, chasing the almost smile on her lips.

Those are the worst dreams, and the ones he holds onto the most.

* * *

He’s in a mood by the time they reach Kaedwen. It’s made immediately worse when he enters the inn and comes face to face with Yennefer. 

Yennefer is with another woman - slim, pale and there’s an air of power and sophistication around her even if she appears unwell. She looks equally pleased to see him.

“Geralt,” she greets him dryly.

“Yennefer,” he throws back. 

“Witch.” Jaskier sounds as prickly as a cactus fruit.

“Bard,” she throws back.

“Tissaia,” the other woman chimes in, amused. 

Of course, Geralt thinks Triss had told him as much. Tissaia de Vries, sorceress of the Chapter, infamous rectoress of Aretuza. She’s smaller than he had envisioned. Her eyes are piercing as they look him over.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Jaskier greets, and Geralt can practically see him salivating at the thought of all the tales to be discovered.

“I’ve heard much about you, Geralt of Rivia,” she addresses him instead. Her tone makes it impossible to tell if those things were good or bad.

“What are you doing here, Geralt?” Yennefer has clearly had enough of the niceties. “Here to kill a monster?”

“Why? You have something in mind?” Despite how they last parted, there was no reason they couldn’t be civil. Plus, he was looking for his next job, though the fact Yennefer can’t take care of it herself does not bode well.

He’s hoping she doesn’t say an Ignis Fatuus. He _hates_ those.

“Yes, someone.”

He grunts. “I hunt monsters, not men.”

She steps in close, and there’s a simmering rage in those violet eyes. “He is a monster, the worst kind.”

“Yennefer,” Tissaia cuts in. 

“No!” Yennefer rounds on the other woman. “He is a monster, he’s killed countless people, he lets others die for him without a second thought, he sent our people to their death when he could’ve easily helped, he hurt you.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says. “I won’t be used as a sword to kill a human just because they are an enemy.”

“Even when it’s the lesser evil?”

He inhales sharp, and the breath stings. 

She turns to him fully, eyes hard. “You did it already in Blaviken did you not?”

He doesn’t realise he’s moved until he’s towering over her, her wrist clenched in his hand. It must hurt, but Yennefer doesn’t show it. Her gaze is a challenge.

“Do not speak of what you don’t understand,” he hisses.

“Geralt…” Jaskier says tentatively.

He looks up and realises he’s drawing a lot of attention. He drops Yennefer’s hand. “Outside, now.”

She whispers something to Tissaia, pats her shoulder reassuringly and follows him. 

He’s on edge when they reach the barn behind the inn and he is angry, not necessarily even at her; ants under his skin, a buzzing in his ear.

“You’re always like this about Blaviken,” she observes coolly.

“Shut up.”

He glares at her and wonders why they’re always like this. She always pushes his buttons and he never knows what to say and it’s beyond frustrating.

She shoves at him. “How long has it been? You killed some bandits and you saved a bunch of townsfolk, what is the big deal, Geralt?”

“Stop,” he growls and tries to move past. “This conversation is over.”

“What’s the problem Geralt? Why are you so broken up huh?”

“I said _stop_!” he growls and pushes her against the pillar of the barn, hard enough the wood creaks. 

She grins, baring her teeth at him. “Did you make the wrong choice Geralt?”

His vision goes red and he’s not sure what he’s going to do, but she grabs him by the throat with one hand and the other clutches hard between his legs and he grunts in both pain and surprise.

She kisses him, mouth open and it’s a filthy kiss. He lets go of her, but his skin is still buzzing and his heart is thundering and when she undoes his breeches, he lets her. 

It’s fierce and brutal and angry and both of them are using each other to chase something else, but if they can’t get relief from their minds, then at least they can find release in their bodies. 

This is the good thing about Yennefer. She’s a storm in a bottle and he can barely keep up with her and it’s such a welcome reprieve. So he loses himself in the movement and the battle between them and he’s thankful he doesn’t have time to think. 

They dress in silence afterwards, and it’s him who speaks first. “How did you know?”

She stares at him for a long beat. “You talk in your sleep.” 

He closes his eyes. “I’m still not going to kill someone for you.”

She smiles, but it does not reach her eyes. “Not even Stregobor?”

His head whips up and she stares back impassively. She steps out of the barn and walks away without another word.

“When do we leave?”

She doesn’t pause. “At dawn.”


	2. Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They face off against Stregobor and Geralt's past and present collide when everything comes to a head.

After Blaviken, he had walked out of that town and rode for three days without stopping. 

He spent the first few weeks desperately trying to forget about the town and the people and what happened. 

He hunted and traveled and drank; sought solace in the arms of strangers paid to enjoy his company. He tried to settle back into his routine before everything had shaken up his life and he chased desperately after the feelings he had felt in the woods that night. With each attempt, it became harder and harder to hold onto.

In one town, he found a girl with brown eyes and short hair, and something tightened in his chest when she reached out to touch him. Her hands were too small, too soft, but the way her breath hitched when he kissed between her breasts sounded almost the same. He planted a trail of kisses down her stomach just to hear more, and he swallowed against the lump in his throat as her features blurred beneath him.

He allowed himself to think of her that night.

After that, he couldn’t stop. 

He thought of her when he’s fighting against a monster with its teeth on his neck. He thought of her when he moved through the bustling streets of a new town, and in haunted crypts left abandoned for decades. He thought of her when he was entangled in the embrace of another woman.

Eventually, Geralt resigned himself to his fate. He had no one to blame but himself. It defied all reason to feel the way he felt - he barely knew her at all, for god’s sake - but he couldn’t shake it either. 

He spent the years after that finding out everything he could about the Curse of the Black Sun. He had wanted to feel justified, to be proven that he did the right thing, that he had killed a monster instead of a girl. That he made the right choice, no matter the personal ramifications for him.

What he found made him want to turn back to Blaviken and end Stregobor himself.

A prophecy by a mage that foretold the end of humankind. That sixty girls born during an eclipse would somehow turn rivers into blood and destroy the world. 

He hears of stories about girls trapped in towers, hunted, tortured and killed for no other reason than being born at the wrong time. 

Geralt spoke to people who knew the girls, researched the prophecy and its signs, tracked down the legacies left behind. A few tales told of the supposed cruelty of some of the women, but it proved nothing to Geralt. The Curse was a self-fulfilling prophecy if anything. Often suffering bred cruelty or a need for revenge. He had seen it in hundreds of men and women born under every kind of sun. 

He had to stop when he heard of the experiments and the...vivisections. That Stregobor had been leading the Council’s efforts in such things made the blood freeze in his veins. Even knowing about the autopsies done to study the so called internal mutations from Stregobor himself, Geralt could not allow himself to consider the possibility of that happening to Renfri. He would not survive it. Leaving her there in Blaviken was a regret so great it was second only to the act of ending her life in the first place.

He told herself she was laid to rest in the woods. That maybe she didn’t get a proper burial, but that perhaps someone placed a cross on her grave. He imagined a flower laid upon the ground.

It became easier to bear as the months turned into years into decades, and he thought of her less. He told himself it’s because he’s put it past him, but the ache that accompanied thoughts of her never faded in intensity.

* * *

When they arrive in the Pontar Valley, it becomes clear that Stregobor is expecting them. 

There are a large number of soldiers lined up outside, but evidently, Stegobor has deemed them to be expendable. He must know there was little soldiers could do in the face of two sorceresses and a Witcher, no matter how well trained they were. 

“How typical of Stregobor to let others pay for his crimes,” Yennefer commented with displeasure. Her steed snorts as if in agreement.

Indeed. A man willing to let everyone in a town die rather than face an enemy would think nothing of paying men to go to their deaths.

Still, paid or not, innocent or not, the soldiers had to be dealt with. He's glad he convinced Jaskier to stay behind. Geralt watches as Yennefer and Tissaia exchange a look as they dismount. Then Yennefer is grabbing Geralt and pulling him forward. Looks like they are leaving the soldiers to the rectoress to deal with. 

Geralt is a little surprised. Their travels over the last few days had shown a different side of Yennefer - one that was fiercely protective, gentle and a little uncertain with herself. With the way she had hovered over Tissaia, he was surprised she was willing to leave the other woman alone to deal with this.

“It’s fine,” Yennefer shouts over her shoulder. “Tissaia can more than handle these foot soldiers. She’s more powerful than you could possibly know.”

He was not told of all the details, but enough to ascertain that there was a coup of sorts within the Chapter. That Tissaia was betrayed and Stregobor had stooped to despicable lows to not only poison her magic, but also physically wound her. Yennefer also told him that the man had burnt Aretuza to the ground. 

Geralt didn’t know the woman, but she seemed dignified and just, displaying a steely strength even clearly weakened and wrestling with a tragedy. He understood why Yennefer would be furious on behalf of her friend and mentor and the loss of the place where she’d become who she is today.

He trusts Yennefer knows what’s best. They make good time up the steps to the base of the tower.

After that, it’s a bloodbath.

The two of them slay their way up the spiraling steps. Unlike outside, the tower itself was filled with creatures instead of men, some monsters procured from across the lands, and others - wolves, snakes, eagles - under the influence of dark magic. 

By the time they make it to the top parts of the tower, both Geralt’s silver and steel swords are dripping with blood and his shirt is unpleasantly drenched. A trail of corpses line the stairs all the way up to the door of Stregobor’s personal chambers.

Yennefer seems to pay no attention to the blood splattering her dress and her skin, eyes sharp as she slams the doors open with a wave of her hand.

The mage is seated on a throne of sorts, flanked by two masked figures and surrounded by several dozen candles. His face looks ghoulish in the flickering darkness. It was a world away from his lavish palace bathed in sunlight where they’d first met in Blaviken.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he snarls at them. “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

Yennefer doesn’t even bother acknowledging his words and flings a series of spells at him one after another. She is out for blood, and Geralt is going to make sure she gets it. 

He throws himself in front of one of the masked figures who had moved to attack Yennefer, twin axes swinging. He notices that the other one with the long hair remains by Stregobor’s throne.

Up close, even with the mask on, he can tell it’s a man. A man taller and wider than Geralt, and when he swings his axes, they carve a path of destruction in the room - tiles etched with gold explode; hand-painted pillars shatter as Geralt leads him away from Yennefer. He’s stronger than humanly possible and Geralt has no doubt those axes have felled countless men over the years.

Geralt is no man. 

It doesn’t take him very long before Geralt finds an opening and he takes the man down with a powerful swing of his sword. There’s a splatter of blood as the sword carves from the man’s side and up his torso. 

He falls with a heavy thump and Geralt is stepping back before the hair on his neck stands up and years of training and decades of experience sends him ducking.

The dagger flies past and a strand of his hair falls to the floor. 

The aim was impeccable, the intention deadly. Geralt jerks to the side, to avoid a second blade and he leaps to try and get close enough to his attacker to use his sword.

Stregobor’s remaining guard is tiny, a woman most likely, long hair down to her waist and faint curves through the light armour. She is faster than the first, as fast as Geralt, he notes with surprise as they exchange in a deadly dance and her movements are sharp, lethal and with zero hesitation. 

This one was dangerous, Geralt thinks warily as he dodges and tries to find an opening. 

He thinks he finds it when the woman shifts her weight to one feet to attack at his side, but she feigns when Geralt blocks and twists in an almost impossible arc. The dagger sinks into his thigh before he can react. It’s familiar, almost too much so, the pain and the movements and he slams into her with his full weight and she goes down with a grunt. 

She grabs his sword with her bare hands, not caring when it slices both palms and uses his surprise to yank the sword from his grip. She slams the hilt into his throat and he chokes against the hit, and she lands an elbow against his nose, and he feels the blood gushing down his face. He manages to knock the sword out of her hands before she can turn it on him and presses his full weight down on her sword arm using his knee. 

There’s an audible snap, and she jerks from the pain, a spasm shooting through her arm. 

Based on personal experience, Geralt expects her to scream. 

She doesn’t. He’s impressed despite himself.

Before she can recover, he uses the opportunity to quickly reach out, grabbing her head in both hands and twists sharply. She goes limp instantly and a dagger falls to the ground, the tip bloody from where it had pierced his side.

He grunts, then exhales slowly. 

He glances over to see Yennefer with her hands around Stregobor’s neck, her fingers and her magic digging in.

It’s over. 

“You’ll never get her back...if you kill me,” the mage chokes out and Geralt and Yennefer exchange a quick glance.

“You would kill her again, Witcher?” Stregobor rasps.

Geralt freezes. The mage was a liar and a coward. It was an impossibility and he was saying anything to get out of his imminent demise. Yennefer was clearly not buying a word the man was saying with the way her hands tighten.

Still, Geralt reaches out, his movements stiff and slow. His fingers slide under the edge of the mask on the fallen guard. 

He pulls the mask off.

The world goes still. 

* * *

The sound of the world rushes back in a cacophony of thundering heartbeats and screaming in his head.

He rounds on Stregobor and he all but shoves Yennefer out of the way to wrap his own hands around the mage’s neck. “What. Did. You. Do.”

The man has the nerve to laugh even as he’s choking. "The question is what did _you_ do? Was killing her once, not enough to satisfy you, Witcher?"

Geralt can feel himself tremble - with rage, and guilt and disgust. 

The laughter turns into a howl of pain as Geralt squeezes hard enough to shatter the man’s collarbone. 

“She was the last of Lilit’s children," Stregobor proclaims earnestly, once he stopped screaming. "I needed to find out more.”

Unlike some of the other witchers, Geralt has never enjoyed killing monsters. He does it because it needs to be done, and he's very good at it. He gets satisfaction from the kill because it means the job is over and he'll get his coin and the people of the town will no longer be plagued by death. He does not enjoy the kill for the sake of killing, and he prefers to be as fast and precise as possible. There is nothing to be gained from pain.

Right now, he's starting to feel differently. 

“Bring her back,” he growls, as he keeps pressing into the shattered bones. “Now.”

“What the hell is happening?” Yennefer snaps. “Who is she Geralt?”

He doesn’t know how to answer her, so all he can do is shake Stregobor like a ragdoll, hard and if he happens to break a few more bones, then so be it. “I said _now_.”

“Whoever she is, she’s dead, Geralt,” Yennefer interjects. She sounds like she was questioning his sanity.

“No!” he yells, turning on her. Something in his face makes her eyes widen. 

“He can bring her back! He did it once, he can do it again!”

Yennefer’s eyes widen even further and then narrow in disbelief. She turns to Stregobor slowly. “You didn’t...Necromancy. That’s taboo...even for you.”

Stregobor laughs again. “It’s for the good of the world! Her and her kind would have drowned the entire continent in blood. I needed to find a way to destroy them all. Whatever the cost to that girl.”

A crackle of lightning sears up the mage's neck before Geralt can reach out and punch him.

Stregobor howls in pain and Geralt feels something dark slither in his veins. Whatever the cost, huh. 

“Tell me Stregobor,” Yennefer asks grimly. “Why are girls always made to bear the cost of men's beliefs?”

She presses the flat of her hand against his forehead and whatever she does, it makes Stregobor thrash in his chair. As much as he would like to let Yennefer continue and draw this out, Geralt needed answers and he needed- 

He forces himself to look over by the statue. He sees the prone body sprawled on the floor, her neck at an impossible angle, and bile rises up in his throat.

He needed this fixed.

“Bring her back,” he spits out. When Stregobor doesn't move, he pushes his sword through the mage's left hand in one swift slice. He shifts his sword to rest the tip against the other hand. “I will _not_ ask again.”

The mage is moaning in pain and he glances between them, and then seeing no mercy on either their faces, he mutters an incantation and with a wave of his hand, there’s a soft crunch of bone from behind them. 

Geralt turns, slowly, and watches the girl he just killed sits up and stand. He lets out a shaky breath. 

“Renfri?”

She does not acknowledge him or show any signs of recognition. Unlike before when they were fighting, she is now perfectly still. Those eyes are blank and cold, lifeless if not for the way they dart around the room quickly. Her face is blank, devoid of all emotions. She pays no attention to the blood dripping from her palms. 

He approaches her slowly and he can hear Yennefer calling out to him, but it’s muffled, almost as if he was underwater.

He slows as he nears, hesitant to touch her. He’s not sure what it will do to her; what it will do to him.

“Renfri?” he asks again. “It’s me. Geralt.”

She stares at him with those big, brown eyes and she stares through him. 

He grabs a strip of his shirt that’s not covered in blood and rips it into strips. He cautiously reaches out and takes her hand. 

She does not pull away or attack him.

He wraps her hand in the makeshift bandage, gentle even as his hand shake slightly, and then does the same to her other hand. 

She does not move at all even as he finishes and Geralt almost wishes she was attacking him again. Anything would be better than this. 

A hand touches his shoulder and he turns to see that it’s Yennefer. She’s watching them with an inscrutable expression, but she says nothing. He wishes she would tell him what to do.

She reaches out to cradle Renfri’s hands, palms glowing and Geralt looks away. What was he thinking. Of course Yennefer could have healed the wounds. What was he even trying to do with some bandages. 

He glances over to Stregobor and sees that Tissaia has joined them. She looks incredibly unflustered for someone who has taken out close to a hundred soldiers. She does look worried though, a furrow between her brows as she stares at them. 

Geralt turns back to Yennefer. “Why- why is she like this? Can you fix it?”

Yennefer shakes her head, her expression murderous. “This is dark, dark magic. Absolutely forbidden. Repulsive. I- I don't know how to help right now."

She looks both furious and lost, much like how Geralt feels right now. "I'm sorry, Geralt." 

He can tell she means it, even if it does nothing to sooth him. She is upset with herself for not being able to help, even if Renfri is a stranger to her, an enemy still if not for Geralt. He can see why Triss and Yennefer would be friends. 

She tenses suddenly, before Geralt has noticed anything happening and she’s spinning, a bolt of lightning shot from her hands. He jerks around to see Stregobor with his staff pointed at Tissaia. 

He shouts, a hand on Yennefer’s arm, but it’s too late.

The lightning solidifies as it hits Stregobor and he’s thrown back as it pierces him in the stomach hard enough to impale him on the chair. The staff tumbles to the floor. 

The mage stares at Yennefer in disbelief before turning his gaze to Geralt as blood gushes from his lips. His eyes are manic. “Just you wait. It’s always like this when she comes back.”

As the words register like a sword in his own chest, Geralt watches as the despicable man slumps, dead at last.

Then the screaming starts.


	3. Illusions

It takes him a moment to register that the screams are coming from Renfri.

He has never heard such a sound come from her, not even when he had slaughtered all of her men. Not even when he had slowly cut her down.

When his sword had sliced deep enough into her shoulder to cut bone, the only sound she had made was a gasp. 

But she was screaming now - deep, wrenching screams tearing out of her as she folded into herself and clawed at the floor.

Yennefer looks like she’s about to step in and knock her unconscious, but Geralt gets there first. He’s moved before his brain can even register it, dropping to the floor and pulling her into his arms. 

She thrashes and howls and her nails rake a stinging line along his neck. He grips her tighter, as if he can draw her terror into himself. 

“It’s okay, it’s going to be okay,” he whispers against her hair. “You’re safe. No one will ever hurt you again, I promise.”

They stay like that for a long time, with Geralt crouched on the floor and Renfri wrapped up in his arms. After a while, the screaming stops and she breaks down into tears instead.

She continues to cry and tremble violently, but she’s not fighting him, so he takes it as a positive. “I’m here. You’re safe, Renfri.”

She pulls away and her eyes are wet with tears, but she stares at him. “Renfri...is that my name?”

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut and swallows hard, before nodding. “Yes. And I’m Geralt.” 

She blinks, once, twice. “Geralt.”

Then she goes limp in his arms.

* * *

Tissaia and Yennefer tell him they should take Renfri to Temeria. 

“Triss is the best healer we have. She might have a better idea of what to do,” Tissaia explains. 

Yennefer nods in agreement. “Plus we can trust her.”

Geralt had to be dragged off the floor by Yennefer, because he had just sat there, frozen in shock and relief after scrambling like a madman to feel for a pulse the second she had passed out in his arms. 

He’s not in much of a headspace to be making judgement calls. He nods his agreement. 

The ride takes the better part of two days and Geralt rides with Renfri in front of him. She does not wake the entire time.

The only thing keeping him sane was the fact that she was breathing, soft but steady against his chest and if he spent part of the journey with his hand on her wrist feeling her heartbeat, then no one had to know.

He swears the stress of it all would have turned his hair white if it wasn’t already.

They are at Triss’ for a whole day before Renfri stirs.

They’d arrived, dirty and bloody and exhausted and Triss had taken one look at the four of them and immediately ushered them in.

When Tissaia explained what had transpired, Triss simply nodded, expression grim. Only when Tissaia mentioned that the girl - Renfri - had been under a spell, did Triss freeze. She turns to look at Geralt, who meets her eyes challengingly.

She had only smiled and turned back to brewing them tea. 

They’re rested now, bellies full and dressed in clean clothes. Geralt has never been more on edge.

When Renfri stirs and takes in the surroundings, she opens her mouth and Geralt braces himself for more screaming. Instead she stares at Triss who is asking her how she feels and if she wants water. She looks at Geralt, and then at Yennefer, and then around the room. Her eyes fall back on Geralt.

“Geralt?” she asks hesitantly and his heart leaps.

He crosses the room and kneels beside her. “Renfri?”

She blinks and she looks sad. “You called me that back in the tower too.”

Geralt feels his heart drop, but he nods. “Yes, your name is Renfri.”

“How do you know me?” she asks weakly. “I don’t...I can’t remember anything.”

He’s not sure how to answer that. He’s saved by Yennefer who says, “Geralt’s a friend of yours. He saved you from the mage who attacked you. You lost your memories.”

Renfri looks upset at that, but then nods, accepting the story and Geralt feels relief and guilt churn in his stomach in equal measures.

Triss throws him a concerned look, before ushering Renfri to rest some more.

Geralt excuses himself from the room.

He spends hours pacing up and down as she slept, his mind racing.

What should he say to her? What should he not tell her? What does she remember? What should he do?

Geralt’s still pacing when Renfri appears beside him. 

She’s dressed in a blue gown, flowing but light, embroidered with gold trimmings. One of Triss’. Her hair has been pulled back into a loose braid. 

She looks like a princess.

Geralt looks away and even as he tries to answer her questions about her past, he can’t bring himself to meet her eyes. 

When Triss comes to collect her, Renfri leaves hesitantly and he can feel the weight of her disappointment and confusion. 

He wants to just hold her.

The next day when Renfri comes to him again seeking answers, he gives her just as little. It’s hard to find much to tell when Geralt knew so little about her in the first place and it wasn’t like he was about to tell her about her death. 

So he says nothing, and wants everything.

* * *

When tales of a monster in the woods reach him, Geralt leaps at the chance to get away.

He heads out at first light, and he wants today to be nothing but a simple hunt and blissful silence. Geralt prays for peace around him even if he can’t get it in his head.

Speaking to the townsfolk, they tell him of a lake that no one dares go, of vanishing monsters.

“There’s treasure there my father used to tell me,” a middle aged woman selling turnips tells him. “In the lake in the woods. I used to dream of going on adventures and finding all the gold and jewels.”

“Did you ever find it?” Geralt asks.

She shakes her head. “No but my father tried looking for it. My uncle too. When I was only nine. They never came back.”

Geralt gives her his condolences and thanks her for the information. 

Disappearances, water and hidden treasure. Geralt has a good idea what this is. Should be a good way to occupy his day, he thinks as he leads Roach into the woods.

It’s dusk before the first sign of activity alerts Geralt. 

He is sitting, sword in his lap when he feels the disturbance at his feet. Having been waiting for this, Geralt rolls quickly to the side, sword at the ready.

The drowner bursts out from under the ground and lets out a nasty screech, leaping at him. 

Geralt strikes precisely, one after the other, and it’s fortunate when the first creature falls, because he can already see another two moving towards him. Damn drowners and their packs. 

He needs to finish this quickly. Not least because there might be more of the blasted creatures, but Gods, Geralt had forgotten how unpleasant the combination of rotting flesh and the oozing sludge were.

Another one goes down, slower this time because Geralt was also fending off the other one. 

He turns his attention on - hopefully - the last drowner when there’s shouting from the trees and a loud splash of water. 

Geralt curses. This is why he hates having people around when he works. They just get in the way and now he has to deal with rescuing some townsfolk.

He blasts the creature he is fighting with Igni and it screeches from the fire, stumbling before exploding altogether. Geralt had moved fast enough to avoid any damage, but not fast enough to avoid all the splatter. 

Still he has other priorities right now and he runs towards the lake. He was loath to enter the water with drowners around, but someone had been dragged in and Geralt wasn’t going to just watch them become drowner food.

There’s still wild splashing breaking the serenity of the water which was a good sign. It meant the person was still alive.

Geralt dives in and it’s harder fighting underwater, but it’s not the first time, and he manages to reach the drowner and its prey. It’s a woman in a blue gown, the fabric tangled around her as she thrashed and kicked, though her movements were starting to slow as he drew nearer. She manages to crack her elbow against the drowner’s face and Geralt uses the opportunity to attack. 

He shoves his sword through the drowner’s side and yanks upwards - the blood spreading out in the water and he tries to rescue the girl and doesn’t quite manage to dodge a claw at his arm. Still he manages to grab the girl and slash the creature once more before swimming up to the surface. 

Geralt gets them both out of the water and away from the edge of the lake before he looks down and he feels a chill down his spine.

Renfri lies on the grass, soaking wet and coughing out water. 

“What are you doing here?!” he growls.

She looks up, still coughing and grimaces sheepishly. “I was following you.”

Geralt frowns. “Why?” 

“Because I was curious about you, but you wouldn’t tell me anything,” she throws back. 

“That doesn’t mean you follow me on a hunt!” He feels his anger rising rather than abating. She was a fool! She could have died! She almost did die - just moments ago.

“I just wanted to know more about you...about me,” she says, looking hurt. “You’re the only one who knows anything about me.” 

His anger fades. “Renfri…”

“I may be breathing, but I don’t feel alive,” she confesses and she stands. Renfri stares down at him, and her jaw is firm, but her hands shake. 

Geralt sighs and gets up. He starts walking back to the forest. “Come on, let’s dry off and then we can talk.”

She smiles, hopeful and Geralt feels tired down to his bones.

They sit by the campfire they’ve pulled together and he tells her a much shorter version of her past. That she was a princess who made an enemy of a fanatic mage simply by being born at the wrong time. That she was framed and hunted and that...Stregobor had kidnapped her and used his magic to make her forget. 

“Why?” She freezes from where she is bandaging his arm. “How?”

Geralt swallows and looks away. “I don’t know. You were a guard for him when we found you.”

Renfri looks doubtful, which is not surprising considering she doesn’t know how to fight now. 

“You don’t look convinced.”

She shakes her head. “No, I believe you, Geralt.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“Because I trust you,” she answers. “I don’t know why, I just do.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say, so he just hands over some berries he’d scavenged. Renfri moves so he can pour the berries into her hand, but she doesn’t move back.

She’s close enough their arms brush against each other when they shift. 

“Is it weird that I trust you even when I don’t remember you?” she asks, tentative.

Geralt hesitates and shakes his head. 

That seems to please her, and Renfri goes back to picking at the berries in her palm, as if trying to find the perfect one. Her hair falls to cover her eyes. Geralt reaches out before he can stop himself, and tugs the loose strands behind her ear. 

Renfri blinks in surprise, but smiles shyly as their eyes meet. She reaches out to touch his hand. 

It was no secret that he found her beautiful. He had even said as much to Stregobor after their first encounter in Blaviken. But here, by the fire, her skin glows golden and her lips are tinged red from the berries. 

Geralt is still staring at her when Renfri turns to him. He looks away a second too late. 

To his surprise, she closes the distance between them and kisses him.

Her mouth is soft, and sweet and he cradles her jaw to deepen the kiss. Renfri makes a small noise and reaches out to clutch at his shoulders. He reaches for her waist, to pull her into his arms and his hands catch on her hair, long and flowing - 

Long hair. This wasn’t the girl in the woods. This was a girl with her face and her name, but she was not Renfri, not really.

 _What the hell are you doing_ , he curses himself. _This girl doesn’t remember you, she doesn’t know what you did to her and she certainly wouldn’t want you if she did._

He jerks back, jaw clenching. “Forgive me.”

“Geralt?” She sounds confused, a little hurt. Her hands reach towards him. 

“I’ll keep watch,” he forces out, standing quickly. “Get some rest.”

“Geralt!” She stands, almost tripping on the edge of her dress and grabs his arm. “What did I do to upset you?”

He pauses and frowns. “You didn’t do anything.”

She tilts her head and steps closer. “Why did you stop?”

Geralt steps back and shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have done it at all.”

She doesn’t flinch or back away, but he sees the way her hands clench against the fabric of her dress. “Why not?”

He can’t believe they are standing here having this conversation. All Geralt wanted this morning was to clear his head, kill a monster and try to figure out what the hell he’s doing. Instead, he’s out in the woods with the ghost of his past and trying to explain why he can’t kiss her.

“They said….” Renfri tentatively starts, as if he was a wounded animal. “They said you were fond of me. Before. I’d hoped you still felt that way.”

Part of his mind is racing at the idea that she wants him even when she doesn’t remember him, and the other part of him rages that she wants him because she doesn’t remember him.

“Because you’re not her!” He snaps, harsher than intended and this time she does flinch. 

He exhales, regret already clawing at his stomach. 

This time, she doesn’t follow him when he walks away.

They don’t talk about it the next morning and everything moves on. 

Days turn into weeks and despite Triss’ assurances she’s making headway with the spell, Geralt is starting to feel like this is their new reality.

Since that night by the lake, Renfri has not tried to get Geralt to talk or to kiss him again, but she does not let him avoid her. She follows him around town and sits beside him when they eat. She threatens to follow him on another hunt if he actively tries to avoid her.

This morning, she had asked him to teach her how to fight, and Geralt had refused. She had not argued, surprisingly, but he really should have known better, because Renfri was now standing in front of him with a sword she had gotten from who knows where.

“What are you doing?” he asks in bewilderment.

“Fight me,” she says boldly.

“I’m not fighting you,” he answers wearily.

She swings at him, holding the sword completely wrong. He doesn’t even need his sword to block her. He dodges her next attempt just as easily.

He grabs her wrist and presses in at the right spot and her sword tumbles out of her hand. 

Renfri stamps her feet in frustration and Geralt smiles at the movement. 

If Geralt was honest with himself, he’d admit that he likes her too, this Renfri. She’s softer, unbroken by the world; an innocent. She doesn’t know how to fight, or needs to. No more princess, Renfri had told him that day by the creek. And now she was again, even without a title, she was every bit the princess she should’ve been, lovely and kind and full of wonder. 

This Renfri smiles freely and unreserved, without agenda or intent. She asks him whatever questions come to her mind and she doesn’t hold back her thoughts. It’s easy to read her, to know her, and to keep her safe.

She doesn’t understand him the way his- the old Renfri did, hasn’t suffered the injustices of the world to know what it’s like to be an outsider, to be hunted and feared and shunned. He should be glad for her and he is, truly. 

There’s a part of him selfish enough that he misses that understanding.

Geralt hasn’t had to deal with feelings for most of his life and he’s certainly not equipped to deal with them when both of the women occupying his thoughts share the same face.

* * *

It’s another week before the spell is ready. 

Or as ready as can be. Triss warns them it’s dangerous. That they have no idea what it might do because it’s never been attempted. That combined with everything that’s been done to Renfri over the years - likely multiple resurrections, Tissaia speculates - this could go very badly.

“I’m going to do the spell,” Renfri says immediately. 

He glances at her sharply. “No, it’s too dangerous.”

She squares her shoulders. “I trust Triss and the others.”

“They aren’t even sure if this will work!” he throws back at her. 

Renfri stares unflinchingly back at him. “I’m not changing my mind.”

“You could _die_ ,” he hisses.

She nods. “I know.” She looks scared, but determined, unmoved by the reminder.

“Renfri…”

“But I’m not Renfri. I’m not the girl you remember,” she cuts him off. “But I want to be her.”

Geralt freezes.

She steps up to him and holds his hand. “Don’t you want your Renfri back?”

 _Not at the cost of you_ , his mind shouts. And at the same time, _So very much._

It’s as if she hears his unspoken words. She smiles, bittersweet. “I like you Geralt. I don’t want you to look at me and always be looking for someone else.”

It’s the ugliest of accusations, even if it was not meant to be one. And the worst of it was that Geralt can not deny the truth of it.

No, she can’t do this. He can’t watch her do this and he definitely cannot have her do this for him.

“Do whatever the hell you want, but do _not_ put it on me. I refuse to have your blood on my hands again.”

Her eyes widen and Geralt swallows but it’s too late. The words are out there and she must know the truth now.

He turns away and he waits until she leaves before he breathes again.

Geralt stands there long after, eyes closed and the blood rushing in his ears. His chest feels tight and he replays their conversation over and over. The look on her face. Those eyes, wide and beautiful and haunting, lingering on his face as if trying to commit his features to memory. 

And maybe she was, knowing that she might never see him again and willing to risk it anyway. 

Geralt realises two things in that moment. 

Firstly, he wasn’t willing for her to risk it. Secondly, he was an absolute ass. 

His eyes open. He starts running. 

_You’re probably too late_ , a treacherous voice whispers in his head. _How many times do you want to lose her?_

The thought is enough to almost bowl him over, but he does not slow down. 

  
  
  


When he runs in, he almost takes the door off in his rush and three pairs of eyes fly towards him. Yennefer has one hand extended, fingertips crackling. 

Renfri does not stir. 

She lies in the middle of the floor, the mages forming a triangle around her. The light of the spell is fading. 

He hovers in the doorway, afraid to breathe too loudly, let alone move. 

A minute passes. Nothing happens. 

_No_ , Geralt thinks. _It can’t end like this. Not with the way they’d parted, not after all these years, not when I just got her back._

Another minute passes. Renfri does not stir.

He drops to his knees beside her despite Yennefer trying to hold him back. 

It’s all his fault.

He had Renfri back. Had her in his life again, breathing, laughing, smiling. He had held her in his arms. Had kissed her. And she had kissed him, had wanted to be with him.

And he had made her feel like she wasn’t enough. That she had to risk her life to be her old self.

His hands were unbloodied this time, but they were by no means clean. 

Renfri wakes with a shuddering gasp, chest heaving as she comes back. Her eyes dart around the room, wild and pupils dilating, before squeezing them shut, overwhelmed. 

Geralt’s breath punches out of him and he reaches out to hold her, fingers wrapping around her wrist and the other supporting her arm. 

Renfri gasps at the touch and she flinches away, eyes snapping open and locking on his. Her hand wrenches away from his hold and flies to her neck, over the scar.

Geralt lets her go as if burnt. His eyes drop to her neck and he feels like he has stabbed her anew. 

He is still staring at her in helpless horror as she stares down at her hands, now clenched in her lap. He watches as she takes a deep breath, followed by another. Her hands unclench slowly, her shoulders drop and when she finally looks up, her eyes are wet, but they are clear.

The silence stretches out in the room and no one dares break it.

“Well that was fun.”

It was so unexpected that Geralt huffs out an incredulous chuckle. Renfri looks at him and gives him a half-smile. A tear falls from her eyes and she blinks several times to make sure no more can fall.

“Geralt?” she turns to look up at him after a moment. “You’re an idiot.”

He does laugh this time, a choked little thing scrapping out of his throat and she presses her face into the crook of his neck. 

Geralt drops a lingering kiss into her hair as he holds her close well after the others leave the room.

* * *

Jaskier arrives the next morning and they make it an hour before he and Yennefer are arguing. 

By the time Geralt emerges with Renfri, Yennefer looks like she’s seriously contemplating turning Jaskier into something unpleasant and easy to kill.

Geralt ushers him away before Yennefer can act on it and Jaskier is halfway through a rant before he notices Renfri. 

“And who is this lovely maiden, may I ask?” 

Geralt isn’t sure how to introduce Renfri, but she beats him to it. “I’m Renfri. I’m an old friend of Geralt.”

She hesitated for a moment on the word ‘friend’, and Jaskier grins at them, clearly getting well ahead of himself.

“Friend, eh?” Jaskier drawls with a wink and Geralt coughs awkwardly. 

“And who are you, good sir?” she asks, teasingly.

Jaskier beams. “I’m Jaskier, I’m the best bard you’ll ever hear and dearest friend to our Witcher over here.”

Geralt sighs. “He’s a decent bard and an acquaintance at best.”

Jaskier is unfazed. “Hear one song and you shall know who speaks the truth!”

Renfri smiles indulgently. “Can’t wait.”

Jaskier sings _Toss A Coin_ because of course he does, and Geralt’s embarrassed by the way he seems extra enthusiastic today and the way Renfri sends amused grins his way.

She seems genuinely impressed by the song though, and even joins in after the first chorus. 

Jaskier’s jaw drops at her voice. “Geralt, I approve of this one.” 

Geralt grunts, but there’s a soft look in his eyes. In fact, Jaskier swears he’s seen the witcher show more emotion in the last hour than he has in a year. 

“Renfri,” Triss calls out from the house. “Can I borrow you for a moment?”

She stands in a smooth motion and her hands squeeze Geralt’s shoulder briefly as she walks away. 

Jaskier watches as Geralt watches her, even after she starts talking to Triss. 

Geralt is alternating between long, intense stares like he’s scared she’ll disappear if he looks away, and tearing his gaze away like it hurts to look at her. 

Jaskier’s eyebrows slowly rise. Who the hell was this girl?

Yennefer keeps the farewell brief, as was her way. 

“We’ll be in Aretuza if you guys need anything,” she offers casually. “Renfri mainly. Don’t come to me with any of Jaskier’s problems.”

Geralt nods, amused. “After all we shared, she comes in and just wins you over.”

“She’s a lot prettier than you,” Yennefer jokes. Then her smile fades. “I like her. She’s a survivor.”

Geralt hums in agreement and reaches out to give her one pat on the arm. “Good luck, Yen.”

She waves as she walks back towards Tissaia, who nods at Geralt with a smile. 

Jaskier approaches afterwards. “I guess I should probably be off too.”

Geralt frowns. “Where are you going?”

“Well...haven’t decided,” Jaskier mumbles. “I just figured you guys would want me out of your hair for a while.”

“You don’t have to go,” Geralt says. “I don’t mind.”

“Renfri won’t mind? Yennefer never liked it when I tagged along and I actually like this one, Geralt.”

Geralt thinks for a moment, and he wonders if he should ask her. But he feels confident in his answer. “No, she won’t.”

Jaskier looks dubious, but nods happily. He smiles for so long that Geralt has to ask. “What?”

“Nothing,” Jaskier says, still smiling broadly. “I’m glad you’ve met someone you like. I was worried you were going to...not move on from that princess.”

Geralt hesitates. “Actually…about that.”

Jaskier swings to look at him, and his eyes widen. They dart to the tent and back to Geralt. “You’re not serious?”

Geralt only shrugs and pats Jaskier on the shoulder. 

“You’re joking, right?! How?” Jaskier yells after him. “Geralt? How?!”

* * *

When he steps back into the tent, the gown is gone and Renfri is in pants and a shirt - his shirt, Geralt notes and the thought pleases him for some reason.

“A lintar for your thoughts? 

She turns at his question, a smile softening her face and for the fourth time today, Geralt thinks, _it’s really her_. 

“Are they gone?” she asks, hands yanking her hair back. It’s almost down to her lower back now, and he’s amused by how much it seems to annoy Renfri now, especially given how much she loved braiding it just days ago.

“Yes. Aretuza. They’re rebuilding.” 

She glances at him with a teasing smile. “And Jaskier?”

“I told him to stay,” Geralt offers, wondering if he made the right call after all. 

She nods. “Good, I can’t wait to hear more of his tales of the White Wolf”

She throws him a grin over her shoulder and Geralt gives her a long suffering look, even if he feels a weight lift off his chest. Jaskier’s constant presence had always been a point of contention with Yennefer.

Renfri closes the space between them and pulls a knife from her boot, offering it to him. Geralt looks at her with trepidation. She sighs and takes his hand, pressing the hilt of the dagger into his palm. She then proceeds to grab her hair and turn away from him. “Help me?”

He relaxes, but hesitates. One hand comes up to rest on her shoulder and the other holds the knife. “You can just tie it back you know.”

She’s silent for a while and she doesn’t turn to look at him. “Stregobor preferred it long,” she says flatly. 

Geralt’s grip on the knife tightens and he lets her guide his hand to just above her shoulders. 

“Do it,” she half orders, half pleads, and the next moment, long strands of hair fall at their feet. 

Neither of them move. 

“I won’t ask for your forgiveness. I don’t deserve it.”

She turns then, and reaches out to brush a strand of hair away from his face. “Geralt, I made you choose. I never held it against you, even then. I told you as much.”

“What?”

Renfri frowns, and then regret replaces the confusion. “You didn’t hear me. What I said to you at the end.”

He shakes his head and Geralt can’t believe he’s finally going to hear those words. He only hopes it doesn’t make everything worse.

“I said ‘I forgive you’, Geralt. Did you truly go all these years thinking I blamed you?”

Geralt lets out a shaky breath and he can’t quite comprehend it all. He still feels the need to apologise. “I said I wouldn’t choose, but I did and I chose wr-”

“You had to,” she interrupts. “You _had_ to.”

He refuses to let her forgiveness derail his guilt. “If I hadn't….killed you, Stregobor would never have had the opportunity to lay his hands on you.”

Renfri tenses then, but her voice is still gentle. “I will say this only once, and we won’t speak of it again. What Stregobor did...I will never be free of it and I’m glad he is dead, though I wish it was by my hands.”

There’s a darkness in her eyes, but Renfri closes them for a moment, and when she looks at him again, it is gone. “Still, that monster provided the means that brought me back. I’m alive again, and I don’t want to waste it on regret and revenge.”

“Not this time.” She steps into his space and there’s fire in those eyes. “This time I want to _live_.”

Geralt swallows, and wishes he was better with words. That he could tell her what hearing her say that means to him. He can only reach out and lean down to rest their heads together.

She tilts her head up to look at him, searching for something. She must have found whatever she was looking for, because she slides a hand around his neck, pulling him in.

His hands find purchase in her hair as they kiss, and Geralt notices how one side is shorter than the other. He blurts that out when they pause to catch their breaths.

“I don’t mind,” Renfri laughs and she’s so close that he feels it echo through her ribs. “I could never get it straight either.”

He kisses her again, deeply and tucks one side behind her ear. “There, all even.”

Renfri grins and their noses knock together as she leans in again. 

When she reaches for his shirt, he lets her yank it above his head, but he hesitates to touch her. There was so much history, so many things still left buried and unsaid.

She practically rolls her eyes at his hesitation, and walks him backwards, before pushing him down on the bed. She straddles him, but makes no move to undress and that’s what finally prompts him to reach out. He unties the strings to her shirt and tries not to flinch when he sees the scar marring her neck. 

It’s in the past now, he tells himself. She’s alive. She’s _alive_. 

He slides the fabric off her shoulders, and drops his lips against her shoulder. He blocks out the churning in his stomach and his thoughts, instead focusing all his attention on kissing her neck and down past her collarbones. He worships her skin languidly until she arches against him. 

When he moves to remove her shirt though, hands clamp down around his wrists, and he looks up startled. 

Renfri isn’t looking at him, but her hands release his and drops to the button of his trousers. 

“You don’t have to,” she says as she frees him from his pants. “I...like I said, Stregobor left his marks. You don’t need to see. We can just-”

Geralt feels white hot rage lick at his insides at what the mage had done to this woman. Still, this moment was not about Stregobor, or him. This was about Renfri.

She’s tugged her pants past her hips before Geralt reaches out and catches her hands. 

He kisses her knuckles and wraps his arms around her waist to lay her down on the bed. 

“Geralt…we can skip this...”

He joins her on the bed and kisses her softly. Then he purposely traces his path down her torso again, kisses against golden skin. He undoes the rest of her shirt slowly and continues his path. 

He does not stop when he sees the series of scars criss-crossing her torso. 

Renfri turns away and he can feel her tense. 

He kisses the jagged scar across her navel, then the longest one between her breasts. “All those years ago, you said It’s been a long time since someone saw you. I want to see you. All of you.”

Renfri stares at him and then huffs out a little breathless laugh, but her body relaxes and she clutches at him like a lifeline. 

“You talk too much, Geralt,” she murmurs and reaches down to brush back his hair.

He quirks an eyebrow at her, and kisses her hipbone once before moving lower.

She inhales sharply, but shuffles to accommodate him. 

He does not say another word after that, as he continues until her thighs start to tremble and he runs his palms against lean muscle to anchor her.

When he finally sinks into her, she curses colourfully. 

They rock together, pressing into each other’s skin and clutching tight through the sensations and the pleasure as they chased it higher and higher. 

He presses her into the bed until she flips them over again and grinds down onto him. Geralt’s control starts to slip when Renfri’s grip in his hair tightens enough to hurt. His scalp tingles and she sinks down mercilessly each time, deeper each time.

She rides him and attacks his throat, a not so subtle edge of teeth and his hips move of their own accord, slamming into her until her mouth opens in a silent scream.

Geralt puts some of the famed witcher stamina to use and does not slow even as she goes still, body drawn tight as a bow.

He does not stop when she unravels, and not even when her hands come to rest against his neck, holding him down firmly. With how petite she is, it’s easy to forget just how strong Renfri is. It sends a shiver down his spine. Geralt’s used to holding back even in pleasure and it’s a thrill to let go completely. 

So he does, and Geralt feels a primal sense of victory with each unrestrained sound he pulls from her. He’s not going to tell Jaskier, but it’s sweeter than any song he’s heard.

Her moans soon turn into commands and eventually melts into just gasps of Geralt’s name, over and over again until she trembles apart around him again and this time he falls with her.

  
  
  


“You know if you’d done _that_ at Blaviken, I’d probably couldn’t have walked to the markets the next day even if I’d wanted to.”

They’re lying on the floor because somewhere during all that they’d ended up on the floor and Geralt’s still trying to catch his breath. Renfri is sprawled next to him, her skin damp and flushed in the moonlight.

At the flat look he throws her, Renfri laughs. He decides he wants to hear it more. 

Her grin softens to a smile. “You probably could have convinced me to actually leave town. You almost did, you know, even then.”

His heart pangs at the thought of what could’ve been. 

“But who knew you were holding out on me this entire time,” she says with a playful bite at his shoulder.

He does not roll his eyes at her, but it’s a close call. “Well I wasn’t in love with you back then.”

Renfri freezes at the same time Geralt registers what he just said.

“I- I mean-”

“You love me?” she asks softly. 

Every fibre of his instincts tells him to deflect, to brush off the comment, to protect himself. 

_The first woman you loved abandoned you to a life of pain_ , a nasty little voice inside him whispers. 

_The last woman you loved died by your hand._

“Since Blaviken,” he admits at last, silencing the voice in his head.

Tears well up in Renfri’s eyes, and she turns away. Geralt squeezes his eyes shut.

But then her hands are against his jaw, and when his eyes open just in time to see Renfri break out into a smile, radiant in the way it lights up her whole face. Something warm blooms in his chest, like finding shelter after being caught in a snowstorm. 

Geralt’s been out in the cold for a long, long time.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asks, voice thick.

Well you were dead, is probably not the best response. “I didn’t...realise. I didn’t know what it was until later. And by then...you were already gone.”

He doesn’t mean for that to come out as harsh as it sounded and he kicks himself a little because Renfri’s no longer smiling. She just looks at him, eyes soft and he will never be used to the way it makes his stomach twist.

“You once said you thought the world needed you, but you realised you were wrong,” Renfri whispers, eyes never leaving his face. “I can’t speak for the world, Geralt of Rivia, but know that you are needed. You are important.”

Her eyes are burning with such sincerity and passion that Geralt has to look away. She does not let him, both hands cradling his face. “To me. Always.”

This time when Renfri leans in, there’s nothing holding them back.


End file.
